Good For Six
by Aziethe
Summary: Assorted femslash drabbles from DA2, various pairings, mostly bittersweet. Endgame spoilers. Drabble 3: Bethany.
1. Isabela & Merrill: The Small Things

_Disclaimer: Dragon Age is owned by BioWare, I'm not profiting from this in any way._

_Isabela/Merrill. 300 words with title._

* * *

><p><strong>The Small Things<strong>

Isabela knew the power of fashion just as well as anyone. There was a reason why she had spent three winters in Kirkwall freezing her tits off in a tiny blouse, and it had nothing to do with providing the drunkards at the Hanged Man a place to rest their drinks.

Still, staring at the lacy confection of ruffles and embroidered sparrows, she found herself at a complete loss for words.

"Is it... all right?" Merrill squeaked. "Did I do something wrong? I did, didn't I? Creators, I'll never get better at this-"

"I-" Isabela swallowed. "It's very pretty, Kitten. You look good enough to eat," she purred, without a hint of insincerity. There were even little blue ribbons. Tipped with pearls and tied up in _bows_.

"Hawke bought it for me." Merrill blushed, scooting up the length of the bed to allow Isabela room. "For something so little, it cost more than anything I've ever owned, I think. You do like it, don't you? Hawke said you'd like it."

"Hawke said-" Isabela spluttered, her words lost in a laugh. "I do like it, Kitten. Very much so. But you know what would be even better?" She leant in, close enough to see the gradation of colour in Merrill's eyes as they widened, the elf flushing an adorable shade of pink.

"What?"

Her fingers found one of the ribbons and tugged, the silk sliding free with a whisper. Not quite as satisfying as slicing through it with her blade, but it seemed a waste to destroy something so pretty, and Isabela always did like pretty things.

"Finding out what lies beneath," she murmured, her fingers tracing across bare skin. Merrill shivered, leaning her head back; the scrap of ruffles and lace slipped to the floor, completely forgotten.


	2. Merrill & Isabela: The Crow's Nest

_Isabela/Merrill, endgame spoilers, 600 words._

* * *

><p><strong>The Crow's Nest<strong>

She didn't mean to end up so high. But that's the thing - Merrill never _means_ to do anything.

Isabela's crew are probably all lovely people, somewhere beneath the tattoos and piercings and interesting way with words that she's almost sure she could decipher the meaning of, if only she tried hard enough. But they're not _her_ people (and sometimes she thinks there will never be a 'her' people, not anymore, just a series of slightly-more-familiar faces.)

She was one of the fastest climbers in her clan, graceful amidst the canopy in a way that she never was on the ground. The riggings here seem to operate on much the same principles, even if the ropes sway with each step and the mast creaks like a dying tree.

"Kitten!"

Isabela is loud. She is always loud, words pitched to be heard over gales and storms and drunken sailors. Her scarf flutters in the breeze, a tiny blue flag waving at Merrill from below.

"I'm all right!" Merrill yells back, forcing her voice to carry. Of course she is - though her arms ache and her lips are chapped, dry beneath her tongue, the wind slipping through her armour and chilling her to the bone. It's such a long way down, and Merrill has never been afraid of heights but she is so bitterly cold, and her fingers don't seem quite as responsive as they used to be.

There's movement below. Isabela discards her daggers and starts climbing, agile and sure as though she was born for this and no other role. She's so quick, so perfect, and Merrill feels the heat rising to her face. She's embarrassing Isabela again - she shouldn't have come here, shouldn't have relied on whatever exists between them to provide one last chance at belonging.

It's too late now for a change of heart. The land recedes with each passing moment, the still-burning pyres growing ever distant. She had a home there, once. A home - or a hovel, really - streets filled with sewerage and the occasional corpse. Seven years is a long time for any Dalish to stay in one place, and yet this feels less like moving on than running away.

"Caught you." Isabela's lips skirt the nape of her neck, warm and soft with a promise that Merrill would never ask her to keep.

"I wish Hawke were here," Merrill says, but it's a lie. She saw the way Hawke and Isabela looked at each other, with a hunger she couldn't quite bring herself to deny. Merrill has no illusions as to what the outcome would be if she were forced to compete with Hawke for anything. Fortunately, she's learnt over the years to never play fair if she can help it; not for the things that really matter.

"Hawke will be fine," Isabela says, in a voice that humans use when they mean to add 'I hope', or 'perhaps', or 'she's probably dead in a ditch somewhere with a templar's sword embedded half-way through her skull, and why couldn't you have convinced her to leave with us, Merrill?'

She nods in outward agreement. It's kind of beautiful, the vision of Kirkwall aflame - and she is a terrible person for the thought, but she can't help it - the smoke hides the worst of the carnage, and the fires glow with an inner light that's almost soothing. It's perfect in a way the city itself could never be, and the strong arm around her waist, the warm pressure on her back - that too, is perfect.


	3. Bethany: The Haunting

_Bethany, 200 words. Rating changed to 'M' to be safe._

* * *

><p><strong>The Haunting<strong>

Bethany remembered her hands most of all. Nails short and rounded, skin marked by fine white scars. The lines crossing her palms; the pallor of her knuckles; the stillness of her fingers promising retribution yet to come.

Her own were poor substitutes. She closed her eyes and imagined callouses brushing her cheek, welted palms and the cold, hard press of steel against her throat.

It was no use. She bit her tongue against the whimper threatening to emerge and twisted in the sheets. The tingle growing in her belly spread and rose until she pressed her face into a pillow, teeth clenched and silent - always silent against her shame. Her secret.

Something brushed her hair. She brought her fingers to her mouth, a name upon her lips - no, not a name - a title; a prayer.

The curtains fluttered as though in answer. Hands curved over her breasts, slipping beneath her shift, grazing her sex. Her breathing quickened and she arched, needing more, needing so much more than what remembrance could provide.

"Knight-Commander," she whispered, and the spell broke; she fell back, knees parted and cheeks flushed, alone save for her grief, and her ghost.


End file.
